“Bullshit in Farsi.”
“Don’t that beat all?” Big John let out a chuckle. “Yeah, it’s bullshit in any language. We can bring in a couple dozen witnesses who’d swear Blake never pays in advance, never pays cash,
He shrugged, drank more coffee. “If Lincoln Blake wants to push it to trial, it won’t hurt my feelings. Make a nice splash. He’s charged with solicitation of murder for hire of a police officer. They’re going to want to deal before it’s done. Any way it’s sliced, he’ll do time.”
“I can live with that, too.”
“Good enough.” He unfolded his six-foot-six-inch frame. “I’ll make the deal with the boy’s lawyer. You did good, clean work with both these arrests.”
“Good, clean work’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Supposed to and is aren’t always the same. I’ll be in touch.”
No, they weren’t always the same, Brooks thought. But he’d like to get back to that good, clean work. Just that. He wanted the rest over and done, however intriguing parts of it were.
The everyday, Abigail called it. It surprised him how much he’d learned to value the everyday.
He stepped out of his office. There was Alma at dispatch, a pencil behind her ear, a pink tumbler of sweet tea at her elbow. Ash at his desk, brows knitted as he pecked away at the keyboard, Boyd’s voice over the radio reporting a minor traffic accident off Rabbit Run at Mill’s Head.
He’d take this, Brooks realized. Yeah, he’d take just this. Every day.
Abigail walked in.
He knew her, so he saw the tension, though she kept her face impassive.
Alma spotted her. “Well, hey, there. I heard the news. I want to say best wishes to you, Abigail, as you’re family now. You’ve got yourself a good man there.”
“Thank you. Yes, I do. A very good man. Hello, Deputy Hyderman.”
“Aw, it’s Ash, ma’am. Nice to see you.”
“It’s Abigail. It’s Abigail now. I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you have a moment?” she asked Brooks.
“Or two. Come on in.”
He took her hand, kept it after he closed the door to his office. “What happened?”
“It’s good, what happened.” The good made her a little breathless. “Garrison contacted me. Her report was very brief, considering, but inclusive.”
“Abigail, spill it.”
“I’m—oh. Yes. They’ve picked up Cosgrove and Keegan. They’re interrogating, and that may take some time. She didn’t mention the blackmail, but I’ve followed some of the communications in-house, so to speak. Naturally, they believe Keegan blackmailed Cosgrove, and they’ll use that to pressure each of them. More. More important. They’ve arrested Korotkii and Ilya Volkov. They’ve arrested Korotkii for the murders of Julie and Alexi, and Ilya as accessory after the fact.”
“Sit down, honey.”
“I can’t. It’s happening. It’s actually happening. They’ve asked me to meet with the federal prosecutor and his team to prepare me for testifying.”
“When?”
“Right away. I have a plan.” She took both his hands now, held tight. “I need you to trust me.”
“Tell me.”
On a bright July morning, one month and twelve years from the day she’d witnessed the murders, Elizabeth Fitch entered the courtroom. She wore a simple black suit and white shirt, and what appeared to be minimal makeup. A pair of pretty dangling earrings were her only jewelry.
She took the stand, swore to tell the truth. And looked directly into Ilya Volkov’s eyes.
How little he’d changed, really, she thought. A bit fuller in face and body, his hair more expertly styled. But still so handsome, so smooth.
And so cold under it all. She could see that now, what the young girl hadn’t. The ice under the polish.
He smiled at her, and the years dropped away.
He thought the smile intimidating, she decided. Instead, it made her remember, and helped her forgive herself for being so dazzled that night, for kissing a man complicit in the murder of her friend.
“Please state your name.”
“My name is Elizabeth Fitch.”
She told the story she’d recounted now almost too many times to bear. She skipped no detail and, as instructed, allowed her emotions to show.
“These events happened twelve years ago,” the federal prosecutor reminded her. “Why has it taken you so long to come forward?”
“I came forward that night. I spoke with Detectives Brenda Griffith and Sean Riley of the Chicago Police Department.”
They were in the courtroom, too. She looked at them, both of them, saw the faint nods of acknowledgment.
“I was taken to a safe house, then transferred into the protection of the U.S. Marshals Service and transferred to another location, where I remained under the protection of Marshals John Barrow, Theresa Norton, William Cosgrove and Lynda Peski for three months as there were delays in the trial. Until the evening of my seventeenth birthday.”
“What happened on that date?”
“Marshals Barrow and Norton were killed protecting me when Marshal Cosgrove, and a Marshal Keegan who had arranged to replace Marshal Peski, attempted to kill me.”
Hands tightly clenched in her lap, she sat through the objections, the jockeying.
“How do you know this?” the prosecutor demanded.
She talked, and continued to talk, of a pretty sweater and a pair of earrings, of a birthday cake. Of shouts and gunshots, of her last moments with John Barrow and his last words to her.
“He had a wife and two sons whom he loved very much. He was a good man, a kind one and a brave one. He gave his life to save mine. And when he knew he was dying, when he knew he couldn’t protect me, he told me to run, because two men he trusted, two men who’d taken the same oaths he had, betrayed their oath. He couldn’t know if there were others, or whom I could trust other than myself. He spent his last moments doing everything he could to keep me safe. So I ran.”
“And for twelve years you’ve lived under an assumed name and remained hidden from the authorities.”
“Yes, and from the Volkovs, and from those within the authorities who work with the Volkovs.”
“What changed, Ms. Fitch? Why are you testifying here and now?”
“As long as I ran, the life both John and Terry died for was safe. But as long as I ran, there could be no justice for them, or for Julie Masters. And the life they saved could only be half a life. I want people to know what was done, and I want to make the life they saved worthwhile. I’m finished running.”
She didn’t waver through the cross. She’d assumed it would pain her to be called a liar, a coward, to have her veracity, her motives, her actions, twisted and warped.
But it didn’t. It only made her dig in deeper, speak more concisely. She kept her eyes level, her voice strong.
Testimony completed, she walked out under escort and into a conference room.
“You were perfect,” Garrison told her.
“I hope so.”
“You held tough, gave clear answers. The jury believed you. They saw you at sixteen, Liz, and at seventeen, just as they saw you now. You made them see you.”
“If they did, they’ll convict. I have to believe they will.”
“Believe me, you turned the key. Are you ready for the rest?”
“I hope I am.”
Garrison took her arm a moment, spoke quietly. “Be sure. We can get you out safe. We can protect
